


Don't Be Afraid (C'mon Baby)

by poisontaster



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Bittersweet, Established Relationship, First Time, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Series, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-10
Updated: 2007-02-10
Packaged: 2018-04-24 00:26:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4898413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's had enough. Dean can think of one thing he hasn't given Sam yet. (Sam is 16)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Be Afraid (C'mon Baby)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [benitle](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=benitle).



Dad stepped through the door of the rented cabin shouting, "Sam-may!" but Dean knew then. Dean knew right away. Sammy doesn't go to bed when they're out on the hunt. Sammy doesn't sleep. He listens for the rumble of the Impala. He sits within sight of the door and pretends to do his homework. He looks from the corners of his eyes.

"He's not here," Dean says and his voice feels like it comes from a million miles away. Dad looks at Dean strangely but he pulls his pistol from the back of his pants. They search the house but Dean already knows…Sam's not here. Sam is gone.

Sam is _gone_.

"Doesn't look like there was a break-in," Dad says. His eyes are hot, angry. Dean doesn't know how Dad does it when he only feels cold. Dad's hands fall onto his shoulders, pressing, gripping hard. "Did he say anything to you? About where he would go? If he had a plan?"

Dean shakes his head hard. "No, Dad. Nothing like that."

Dad's fingers tighten even more, until Dean feels it all the way to the bone. "I need you to think, Dean. Who are Sammy's friends? Where would he go?"

"I don't know." The truth is, it didn't seem like Sam had even bothered to try and make friends this time around, sticking closer to home more than usual, most of it closeted up in the room he and Dean shared.

 _Share,_ Dean thinks suddenly and fiercely. _Don't put a past tense on it._

"Dean, we need to find your brother and quick. You know what's out there."

"Yes, sir."

***

Dad sends Dean in to search the town while he takes the woods. Dean doesn't like splitting the family up even more, but he knows rationally they'll cover more territory this way. Sam isn't in any of the places he goes first; the library and school are closed and Sam's not on their steps or playgrounds. The one all-night diner is full of kids, but none of them are his kid brother. Under the suspicious, eagle eye of the elderly woman taking tickets, it takes a while for Dean to sneak in and out of the two movies at the theater only to come up empty again.

Dean's running out of places to go.

He resists the impulse to call Dad; Dad won't appreciate him wasting time on that if he doesn't have any news and if Dad had found Sammy, he would've called Dean. He needs to focus.

 _Where would Sammy go?_ Dean wonders, striding fast up the riverfront walkway. It isn't as if they've been in town all that… Dean tallies how long they've been in River's Walk. Whoa. Has it been six months already?

Dean thinks it's maybe just chance that he happens to turn his head then. Rivers are problematic. Running water dispels or discourages a lot of evils, but there are those that live in rivers or fresh water specifically and he never feels entirely comfortable walking alongside it without checking it out every few feet.

In any case, under the faint orange light of the river walk lights, he sees a familiar pair of lanky legs, splayed out in front of a tree, an even more familiar shaggy head, lolling loosely on his neck.

"Sam?" Panic makes his voice sound like it's scraped through with gravel as he hops the short, ornamental fence and tears across the grass. " _Sam?_ "

Sam jerks and, as Dean pulls up even, raises his head to blink owlishly at his brother. A moment later, Sam frowns and waves one of his hands wildly. "Go 'way, Dean."

Dean spots the pretty-much empty bottle of tequila in the fork of Sam's legs and his sweaty-palmed panic turns to irritation and disgust. "Oh, you…you are such a dead man," Dean promises. "Jesus, Sammy, what the fuck were you thinking? Wandering off? Getting drunk? You're gonna be lucky if Dad doesn't lock you in the trunk."

"'N this would be diff'rent from th'rest of my life…how?" Sam's stork-long legs pull up to his chest in slow motion like he's going to get up. Digging his cell phone out of his pocket, Dean reaches out with one booted foot and pushes Sam sideways. Sam topples like Humpty Dumpty,

"Stay right there, Princess. I gotta call Dad and tell him your damn fool ass isn't dead."

Sam's having trouble coordinating his limbs into the motions necessary to get up, flailing weakly like an upended—really spindly—turtle, but he manages to lift his head long enough to give Dean a death glare.

 _"Did you find him?"_ Dad asks immediately, when he picks up the line. _"Is he okay?"_

"Yeah, he's fine," Dean says, deciding the better part of valor is to skip over the completely wasted-drunk part.

 _"I want both of you to get your asses back to the cabin_ immediately." There's edged frost dripping off Dad's voice like an icicle sharp enough to cut.

Dean looks at Sam again, who's at least managed to get his arms under him, unruly hair hanging down to hide his face. "Yes, sir," Dean answers thoughtfully and Dad clicks off, somehow making the absence of sound as loud as if he slammed the phone down.

"He tell you t'kill me," Sam mumbles, when Dean bends down and pushes the Cuervo bottle out of the way, "or's he want the pleasure hisself?" Dean sighs grabs Sam at the belt and shirtsleeve and hauls his brother up. Sam comes up easily, all lanky elbows and knees and worlds away from the chubby kid he was at twelve. Sam's arm wraps death-grip tight around Dean's neck and Sam drags himself all the way upright slowly, too much off his weight hanging off Dean.

"You are fucked. Up," Dean says, not sure whether to be admiring or disgusted. Who knew little Sammy-Stick-in-the-Mud had it in him? At the same time, he's aware of how furious Dad's going to be—hell, already _is_ —and how dog-sick Sam's going to be tomorrow while Dad tortures him for it. John Winchester is not a man kind to hangovers, not even his own. Quieter, Dean asks, "Jesus, Sammy, what were you doing?"

"The only thing I _could_ ," Sam says, head lolling back on his neck so he can look at Dean with glittering eyes. There's such bitterness in his words and his face that Dean flinches. "T'fuck m'I supposed to do? Wait 'round t'see which one of you doesn't come home _this_ time? Or if anyone comes home at all? _Fuck._ " The last word is loud, almost-shouted, and overwhelms Dean in raunchy tequila-whiff. "M'tired of waiting for y'all."

There's no way Dean's getting Sam home in this condition.

***

When Dean dumps him unceremoniously into the diner booth, Sam puts his face down on the cool Formica and wishes he could die. There's salt gritting under his cheek and he can feel it sticking to his sweaty skin and he couldn't care less.

Dean negotiates— _flirts_ , the fucking whore—with the waitress for two cups of coffee and a plate of fries and Sam flings one arm over his eyes to block out the too bright fluorescents, his belly hot, volatile, and very unhappy.

"Thought you were supposed to take me home," Sam growls when Dean finally plants his ass on the other side of the booth. "Not take me out on the town."

"Shut up," Dean says absently, fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers. Sam knows this because he knows Dean and because Dean keeps tapping the bottoms into the table like goddamn castanets. "There was no way I could take you home like that and you know it."

"Oh, what does Dad care?" Sam snaps, lifting his head from his arm. "This is fucking bullshit, Dean. He gets drunk all the time."

"He's not sixteen and wasn't told—ordered—to keep his ass home. And it's not all the time."

"You were drinking at sixteen."

Dean snorts. "Yeah, and I knew better than to get caught at it." Tired of the salt and pepper shakers, Dean spins them into the booth wall and starts tearing the cheap paper napkins from the dispenser into strips. Sam sighs. At least it's quieter.

They're silent for a while and it feels lumpy and out of sorts, just like Sam himself. The waitress brings their coffee. Sam scalds his tongue on the first mouthful but he doesn't care, aware that he'll need to be a lot more sober than he is now to deal with Dad.

"The thing is, Dean…I can't even run away." It comes out quiet but it surprises him. It's been on his mind, but he never meant to say anything about it. Not to Dad and especially not to Dean. The stricken look on Dean's face reminds him of all the reasons why, but his voice keeps going on without him, because he's drunk and he's pissed and he's unhappy and he's choking on it. "Who's gonna hire a sixteen year old kid?" he asks, his voice gaining an edge. "Fucking nobody. Nobody legit. And that means I'm either bussing tables for quarters or peddling my ass until the end of time and for what? I deserve better than that. _We_ deserve better than that."

"Sammy—"

"No!" Sam shakes off Dean's hand when Dean reaches for him and almost knocks over his coffee cup in the process. "I'm fucking sick of it, Dean."

"Sam…it's not that bad, man. I know it feels like that now…"

"It feels like that _all the time_ , Dean."

Dean's head jerks slightly in acknowledgment. "Didn't we stay here all year, so you could stay in the same school, keep the same friends? He's trying, man."

Sam's mouth twists and he looks down into his coffee while his eyes burn and prickle. "It's not just that," he says, fighting to push his voice out steadily through the tightness of his throat. "I'm tired of this, Dean. I'm tired of waiting for you."

He looks up. He's not sure exactly what expression he expects to see on his brother's face, but he doesn't expect blankness and for whatever reason that just pisses him off more.

"What?" Dean's eyebrows wrinkle in over his nose. "What are you even talking about?"

Sam pushes up so that the table's edge digs into his thighs and leans over the table, into Dean's face. "I'm sick of waiting for you to figure _us_ out," he hisses angrily, wishing his dick didn't twitch just at the proximity to Dean. He's angry, he reminds it. "You won't be with me but you won't let me be with anyone else, either."

Dean sputters, eyes frantically going side to side to see if anyone's overhearing this conversation. They don't talk about it. They never talk about it. It's the unspoken rule of fucking around with your brother and if there's one thing Winchesters know well, it's the goddamn rules.

***

"Bullshit," Dean says weakly, easing back in the booth as far from Sam's looming face as he can. "And sit the fuck down. Drink your coffee."

 _He's just drunk,_ Dean reminds himself, wiping his sweating palms on his jeans. _Just drunk with a head full of steam. Get him sobered up and it'll all be fine._

_Because if he says some shit in front of Dad, I'ma kill him._

Sam glares at him but he plunks down heavily in his seat again. "What about the time Kate Chaucer was going to suck my dick and you totally walked in on us and cockblocked me?"

"Kate Chaucer is a total skeeze!" Dean protests. "And she was going to give you a disease!"

Dean most definitely does not think about what it felt like, seeing the skanky bitch on her too-skinny knees in front of Sammy— _his_ Sammy—with his cock already in her hand. He doesn't think about his creeping sense of satisfaction at the startled looks on their faces when he walked in.

And he most certainly doesn't think about the way he sucked Sam off afterwards until he just about screamed.

"I'm _sixteen_!" Sam yelps, "and I was about to get my dick sucked! Do you think I cared?"

Sam's getting louder and they're starting to attract attention from the other diners. Dean gulps at his coffee and wipes his free hand on his jeans again. Because that's _all_ he needs; his little brother announcing to the whole damned town that his older brother's been fucking him—or fucking _around_ , at any rate, since they haven't actually ever gotten to the fucking.

"Sam," Dean says through gritted teeth, "do you think you could chill out for like…five minutes?"

"No," Sam answers thinly, looking a lot older than sixteen as his face draws taut. "No, I'm tired of being calm about this. I'm tired of being _quiet_ about this. You mess around with me and you mess me up and you won't fuck me but you won't let me fuck anyone else. It's not fair, Dean. I'm sick of it." He knocks his coffee cup over suddenly, sending brown liquid racing towards Dean's side of the table. Dean yelps and scrambles out of the way hurriedly, almost missing it when Sam growls, "I'm sick of _everything,_ " and stomps out.

"Sam—" Dean takes a step towards the door, catches the waitress's eagle eye and then stops to dig hastily through the crumpled up money in his pocket. He pulls out a ten, throws it on the table and then runs after his brother. "Sammy!"

He has to chase Sam for about a block and a half before he can catch up with the lanky fucker. Sam tries to dodge aside, but Dean grabs him by the arm and manhandles him into the nearby alley.

"Don't—" Sam says, clearly expecting Dean to argue more about this with him. But Dean just slams his lips over Sam's. He tells himself it's to shut Sam up, but that's not it. Not really. Just like this isn't really about Sam leaving the apartment or getting drunk. It's everything. It's their whole stupid life and wanting things you can never really have.

It's them.

Sam's lips are pursed and resistant, but Dean doesn't give up, kissing Sam as hard as he can and with all his considerable expertise. His hands are on Sam's waist and he squeezes and kneads the skin in time to the push of his cock against Sam's, feeling Sam get harder and looser with every thrust.

Finally, Sam's mouth opens on a soft, aching moan and Sam's arms wrap around Dean's neck, pulling him tight against his body.

 _I'm sorry,_ Dean says with the curling slip of his tongue into his brother's mouth. Sam is so warm in his arms, all their angles fitting into each other's spaces until there's no room between them. _I wish it could be different._

And beside those normal non-verbal reassurances, a new message, a promise that Dean doesn't trust himself to say aloud: _Okay. Whatever you want. Us._

He can taste the tequila in Sam's mouth, bitter heat on his tongue; Dean chases the hints of it, as if he can lick them out and somehow keep Dad from knowing that Sam's totally shitfaced. Sam whimpers and writhes harder against Dean's thigh between his legs.

"Dean….Dean…" Sam pants, pulling away from the kiss with a soft, luscious noise. His eyes are huge in the dimness and suddenly he's slithering from Dean's grip, working at Dean's buckle and trying to go to his knees. "I wanna…let me…"

Dean grabs Sam's fingers, makes them stop. "Wait. Wait. _Sam._ "

Sam's shaking his head, expression close to pleading. "Don't," he whispers, barely loud enough for Dean to hear. "Don't say no. Please, Dean…"

Dean crouches down and kisses Sam again, soft, like he'd kiss a girl and then harder, like he only ever kisses Sam. Hungry. Wanting. Wanting so much, too much. "Dad's waiting," he reminds Sam when he can pull himself away. Sam's eyes flicker and then hide behind sullen lids and long lashes. "We gotta deal with him first."

"Is he mad?" Sam asks, still whispering, still not looking. "Is he real mad?"

"Yeah." Dean squeezes Sam's shoulder. "But it'll be okay."

"And then you and me?" Sam's eyes open all the way, hopeful, bright.

Dean feels like he's selling his soul to the devil, but he nods. "Yeah, Sam. You and me."

***

Sam pounds his sore fist into the mattress again and again but it does nothing to ease the ugly red burn of anger in his chest nor drown out the sound of Dad as—finished with Sam and his useless defiance—he reams Dean a new one.

"…drunk? Did you really think I wouldn't smell it on him?"

Dean's replies, few and far between, are lower, unintelligible through the apartment's walls but even that—that Dean doesn't (won't) yell, won't tell Dad what a hypocritical, obsessed fuck-up he is, won't do _anything_ except stand there and take it—infuriates him.

"…'posed to keep an eye on him! Look out for him."

 _When Dad? When exactly? In between making silver hollow points and burning the shit out of himself because we can't afford good molds? Or maybe while he's out talking up some pretty clerk at the receptionists office so you can get a look at the birth and death certificates? Or even while the two of you are out on the hunt and he needs to be watching his own ass? Is_ that _when Dean is supposed to be making sure I'm staying at home like a good little boy?_

"…and how did he get his hands on it? Don't think I don't know, Dean. Don't you for one second…"

Sam flexes his hand, relishing the ache deep down to the bone. He'd hit the wall. Right in front of Dad, which is how he ended up getting ordered to his room 'to sleep it off' like he's still a kid. Which is how Dad is always going to treat him, until whenever he manages to get out of here.

And he's got to get out of here.

"…seriously don't know what I'm going to do with either one of you, but this behavior is going to stop. _Now._ Do you understand me?"

Sam doesn't hear Dean say anything at all, but a couple moments later, the front door slams and before too long, he hears the car start with a rusty, protesting squeal.

 _Off to the bar, I bet_ , Sam thinks viciously, disgusted, and flops over onto his back.

He wonders if Dean's still going to come to him. In the alley, it seemed like Dean was saying, or promising…something. Sam presses the side of his hand into his half-hard cock, not sure what Dean said or offered or promised anymore. He's wanted this so long, having to fight Dean every step of the way for each kiss, each suck or touch. The way he has to fight for everything, all the time.

The plumbing chugs and clanks and a second after, Sam hears the shower start with a loud squeal that tapers off into a rattling hum. The shower. Dean is showering.

Disappointment curdles with the rest of the tequila in Sam's belly. Of course. He should've known better than to think anything would change, especially after Dad got through with Dean.

 _Just another reason to get the hell out of here_ , Sam thinks ripping up the sheet and blanket impatiently and crawling underneath. He's too hot, though and after flopping back and forth for a few minutes—which is doing nothing for his wobbly stomach—he shoves the covers down to cover his feet and just sweats into the open air, listening to Dean shower and trying very hard not to imagine what Dean looks like while doing it.

_…not thinking at all about how his nipples are probably poking through the suds or the way he lingers on his stomach, making circles around and around and around or how he almost always gets at least half hard…FUCK!_

Sam slams onto his back and opens his eyes to the ceiling—the slowly rotating ceiling. He wonders if anyone in the history of the world has ever hated their life as much as he hates his right now.

The shower cuts off and Sam quickly closes his eyes and lets his body go slack, sinking into the mattress. There isn't much he can do about his dick, but whatever. Dean ignores it the rest of the goddamn time, why should tonight be any different?

The door opens and Sam opens his eyes just a crack. Not enough for Dean to see, but enough so he can make out Dean's silhouette. Dean looks thinner, wirier than he does in his clothes; towel knotted low on his hips and spread wide over his bow legs. Sam thinks about the space between Dean's legs, just wide enough for Sam's cupped hand. He wants to squirm but he makes himself stay still, hardening in his shorts.

Dean's head turns towards Sam, even though his eyes can't have adjusted to the dark yet and Sam watches his shoulders drop, hears the soft half-noise of Dean's sigh.

Dean sits on the edge of his bed, head down and something in his hands, half-hidden by his fingers. "Sam?"

Sam doesn't say anything, still burning low in his belly.

"Sam. Look at me, please."

There's a tone to Dean's voice, softer than usual, a little bit desperate. Sam opens his eyes and raises his head a little from the pillow. It doesn't gentle his voice any when he demands, "What?"

"I haven't done this a lot," Dean says, turning the tube—it's a tube—around in his hands. "I don't…the guys were a lot older than me. They wanted… I…" Dean sighs. Sam sits up all the way, his legs jostling Dean's for space in the too-few inches between the beds. "Anyway, I don't think… You're my little brother and I can't…I _can't_. But if you wanna fuck, then we could do that. I mean…I'd let you and I want to. If you want to."

Sam doesn't know what to do with that, all at once. The thought of Dean with guys, other guys, older guys. Guys that had put their dicks… And Dean wants him to… And he and Dean could. Dean would let him.

He feels sick, the thought of some other guy and Dean. At the same time, his cock is so hard it aches and he presses his hand into it, disgusted and horny and thoroughly confused. "…Dean?" he asks, voice cracking like it's still a year ago.

Dean looks up finally. When he sees the look on Sam's face, he smiles, crooked and rueful. "Aw, no. No, it's fine, Sammy." He grabs Sam's hand and guides it to his crotch; Dean's cock jerks against Sam's palm and he cups it almost reflexively. "It's okay. Really. I liked it. I like it and you… It'll be good. Let me show you."

Dean scoops his fingers under Sam's shirt, lifts the hem. Sam feels weird and numb and shy as Dean drags it over his head. He feels so hot in his skin but he's covered in goosebumps. "Dean? Dean, I want…"

"You want this," Dean answers, putting a hand on either of Sam's thighs. Sam's cock stirs, almost painfully, like it's trying to reach for Dean. "Don't you?"

Sam doesn't trust his voice, so he nods. "Yeah." His hand scrapes across Dean's face, rough, clumsy, turning it towards him. He feels like he wants to shatter Dean into a million pieces and at the same time, he wants to cradle Dean in both his hands like something fragile, precious. Sam doesn't understand it; it feels like too much for his body to contain. "Dean, I…" His breath sighs out. "Yeah."

Dean's fingers dig into Sam's thighs for a second. "We're not girls, Sam. We're not going to do this like girls."

It's just starting to sink in that they're going to _do this_ (omg!) at all and Sam's quick to nod. "Yeah, Dean. Okay."

Dean nods. "Okay."

Dean's lips smash into his like a sneak attack, bowling Sam back on the bed. Sam grunts and flails, grabbing onto Dean's shoulder and the towel at Dean's waist, which unknots and slips away, leaving Sam holding clean, damp, warm skin. Sam's cock fills and unfurls with aching suddenness and, to his surprise, Dean moans into Sam's mouth.

A softer kiss then, the sloppy devouring of Sam's mouth. Gentle nibbles of teeth, the probe and taste of Dean's tongue, twining around his. Dean's hands on his skin. All over his skin. Touching him. Stroking him. Sam's trying to reciprocate, to get his hands on Dean, but mostly he feels heavy, thick, willing to do…whatever. Dean strips Sam out of his boxers and lays him out, hard and aching, soft and pliant.

"It'll be good," Dean says again, squirting lube into his cupped palm and then wrapping his fingers around Sam's cock. Sam cries out, arching up into that firm touch and then flushes with heat, with shame. It's not like Dean's never touched his cock before.

"Shhhh," Dean says, rubbing circles on Sam's belly with one hand while the other slides up and down the length of Sam's cock again and again, making Sam mewl and rock up. Sam's so hard. He doesn't know if his dick's ever been this hard. "Sammy. It's good. I'll be real good."

Dean lays down next to him, crowded on the narrow bed, and Sam kilts on his side, reaching between Dean's legs to curl his fingers around the fat, swollen head of Dean's cock, touch the pearling wetness with the ball of his thumb, slurring across the slit.

"Like this," Dean says and untangles Sam's fingers to shift down, onto his stomach. He puts Sam's hand on the curve, where his ass rounds into the bone of his hip and then stretches his arms up, over his head.

Sam runs the tips of his fingers over Dean's ass, up into the heavy muscles in his back and then down, to the soft, sparsely haired skin of Dean's thighs. Dean sighs and spreads his legs wider, pushing his face into the pillow.

Sam traces the cleft of Dean's ass with one finger, the tip catching on Dean's rim. There is more slickness here, making Dean soft. Dean wriggles impatiently. "Sam—"

Sam wants to fuck him. His stomach aches with it, his skin burns with it, his cock is so full and taut he thinks he could die. But this, Dean's face turned away, shoved down, body spread like…like meat. This isn't what he wants.

"Dean." He tugs at his brother's hip. "Dean, turn over."

Dean groans and stretches, a shudder running through his skin. "Fuck, Sammy, are we going to do this or not? Because I taught you better than to cocktease, goddamn it."

"I just… Can I see you? I want… Can we look at each other?"

"Okay, but when I did this before, it was like this."

And Sam will be the first to say that Dean spread out wide on his belly, ass canted up, is one of the most brain-meltingly hot things Sam has ever seen. But… He doesn't want this to be the same as those other times. He doesn't want to be 'just some dude' to Dean, who fucks him and then…what? Disappears?

"Well, I'm not those other guys, Dean." Sam puts his hand on Dean's hip and drags his brother back toward him. Dean's ass brushes against Sam's cock and he has to take a moment to concentrate on not coming all over Dean's skin because that's so _not going to happen, I'll never hear the end of it._ "I want to see you."

"Jesus, Sammy, I'm bareass naked here. How much more of me is there to see?"

Sam's jaw sets, his fingertips curl and scratch the soft skin of Dean's hip. "I want to see," he says again and Dean sighs.

They end up in some weird, knotty tangle-sprawl, with Dean half on his side and half on his belly and Sam leaning over, into him, his thigh pushed between Dean's. The head of Sam's cock touches Dean _there_ and Sam feels Dean pucker, feels Dean tense up all over. Sam guesses he understands; he's put his fingers up his ass, wanting to be ready for when and if Dean had ever said yes and just that had felt so big, stretching and burning. He wants Dean's cock, but he's scared too, which was always part of it. And now it's the other way around and Dean's letting him…

Sam bites his lip, an agony of indecision. Then Dean wiggles back impatiently and Sam's dick nudges into him, just a little more. "C'mon Sammy; we don't got all night."

Sam skims his fingers slowly over the bony peak of Dean's hip, down across smooth, delicate skin and into the rough of Dean's hair. He grabs Dean's cock at the root and then strokes up, towards the tip, hesitant but firm. Dean inhales, unsteadily. His body moves like he doesn't know whether to push forward or back and his cock gets firmer, hotter in Sam's grip. Sam jacks him again, better this time, and at the same moment, grabs his own dick and thrusts forward into Dean.

Dean makes a noise, breathless and wanting, and reaches back to grip Sam's hip. Sam isn't sure if this means _stop, goddamn it_ or _go, you idiot_ and so he kind of stalls out, uncertain, until Dean pushes back, driving Sam deeper.

"Is… Is it?"

Dean pants shallowly, writhing his hips and taking more of Sam into him. "Yeah, s'okay, Sam; s'good…oh..oh, like that."

Sam thrusts again, trying carefully to repeat whatever it is that made Dean gasp and tighten that way around him. This time Dean moans, and Sam smiles against Dean's shoulder, delighted and does it again and again, feeling Dean shudder from the inside.

Dean's so tight around him, so hot, so much better than his hand or Dean's, or even Dean's amazing, wonderful, talented mouth. Sam slides one arm under his brother and pulls Dean back against him, knowing—understanding—for the first time what he wants better with his body than his head. Dean's leg wraps around Sam's, foot hooking behind Sam's calf.

"Sam," Dean breathes and Sam buries his face in the back of Dean's neck tasting sweat and soap and skin. He wraps both arms around Dean, pulling him tighter, thrusting faster. "I need, I gotta…"

Dean reaches for his cock, stripping it in hard, rough strokes. His breaths are short, high-pitched and Dean turns his face into his armpit as if he doesn't want Sam to hear. It makes Sam's balls tighten and shift and he gasps, "Dean, you gotta, I wanna…"

And then he's coming, hard and violent, grinding his face into Dean's neck, grinding his dick inside Dean deep as he can again and again. Dean makes a noise, barely audible. Sam feels come splash against his forearms, feels Dean twist and seize around his softening cock, dragging spurt after spurt out of Sam until he's whimpering into Dean's skin torn between pleasure and pain.

Afterwards, Dean reaches over and snags his towel from the floor, cleaning them both briskly, roughly. Sam's eyes feel so heavy; his whole body feels like it's been sunk in concrete but he still sees the way Dean's eyes avoid looking him. Sam fights against drowsiness, reaching for Dean's wrist.

Dean stiffens. "Go to sleep, Sam."

"Stay," Sam rasps, the only word he can summon.

Dean is still a really long time. Long enough that Sam starts drifting, his fingers still clasped around his brother's arm. Then Dean sighs and slides down next to him. "Move over, Squirt."

Sam turns on his side and scoots closer to the wall. Dean curls in behind him, arm sliding warm over Sam's waist, his breath ghosting warm across the cooling skin of Sam's nape.

"Don't die," Sam whispers, folding his arm over Dean's and pulling it tight into his body.

Dean shivers, so gently that Sam wouldn't have been able to feel it if they weren't tangled up so close. "Don't leave," Dean answers, even more quietly and hides his face in Sam's skin.

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a pinch hit in the 2007 spn_holidays for benitle . Her request was: Wincest, angst that leads to something tender/schmoopy, first time fic, bottom!Dean, preferably pre-season (i.e. Weecest, something like Sam around 16). I failed just a bit with the schmoopy. Thanks to maygra for beta duties.


End file.
